


Arcadia

by youreyestheyglow



Series: Firsts [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Death, mentions of burning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:03:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3267629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First emotional connection? idk this isn't fitting neatly into the idea of first things anymore<br/>Marco and Jean go see a play that triggers Marco, and he ends up telling Jean what happened to his eye.<br/>Lots of internal confusion on Marco's part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arcadia

**Author's Note:**

> I'd apologize, but it's only been 2 months, not 6, so I think it's an improvement.  
> Seriously considering changing the title of the series.  
> Regardless, I hope you like it!!

You're pretty sure you buy the first two tickets that go on sale.

You're not at all shocked when your phone rings, Jean's number popping up on your screen.

"The tickets are up, where do you -"

"I already bought two."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Silence falls. 

It's - weird.

You've only texted since you saw each other a month ago at Grounds for Sculpture. It was just - easier, somehow. You could take your time to answer his more probing questions, and avoid the topic of your missing eye. He's gotten close to it. You've always avoided it. He's always backed off. 

It's different on the phone, though. There's no cushion of time with which to formulate an answer. 

"So - would you agree to driving to my home, and letting my bodyguard drive us into the city? I doubt Sasha would be comfortable, being so far away from me."

"You'd give me your address?"

"Yes." You hadn't realized you'd been so reticent about it, but of course you were. Why would you give your address to someone who could feasibly murder you?

"Sure. Will Sasha be okay with me?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure about that?" He asks with a laugh. "She seemed pretty willing to shoot me, last I saw her."

"She won't shoot unless you do," you inform him cheerfully.

"Got it. I'll have to avoid shooting you, then."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

That same awkward silence falls again. It's a little worrisome. If this happens - but no, you're going to see a play. You just have to make it through the car ride there, and then the ride back, and on the way home, you'll be able to discuss the play. It'll be fine. 

"Before I forget to ask - what's your address?" Jean asks, startling you a little. 

You can hear him typing in the background as you give it to him. "Hey, you're only twenty minutes away from me!"

"It'll be an easy drive for you, then."

"Then I'll see you in - two months?" 

He sounds hopeful.

"Yeah."

"Sounds good!"

He sounds stilted.

You end the call and set the phone on your desk.

You know he's been a little put-off by your refusal to meet up again, go on another date, talk over the phone. Three months is a long time between dates. And you know that buying tickets the second they go on sale doesn't match up with your refusal to meet. You know, you know, you know. You know. 

You have no idea what you're doing.

You want to see him again, really, you do. You want to sit and talk with someone who can match your intelligence, someone who remembers to stay to your left, someone who doesn't look at you like they're remembering you bloody and near-dead on the ground. You want to, so badly it hurts.

You're just terrified it won't be like that.

You’re terrified he’ll ask about your eye, and you’re terrified you’ll tell him, and you’re terrified you’ll see that flash of pity in his eyes every time he looks at you – and pity is such a cloying thing. Once someone pities you, it’s hard to make that go away. They look at you and think blood, pain, disability, and they wonder what they would do in your situation, and they shudder and look away. They’re grateful it didn’t happen to them, beyond all reason – not just because of the pain or the subsequent inconveniences, but because they truly think of you as less than human, as not quite able to live life. And when you suggest one of the myriad things they could do to make your life a little easier, to make your disability less disabling, they leave. These things are too much for them to do.

Except Sasha, of course.

But Sasha – she doesn’t just feel pity, she feels guilt. And that’s nearly as bad. She thinks she’s ruined your life, which is just incorrect on so many levels.

You don’t want Jean to pity you. You know he’s being good about it – you’re incredibly grateful for it, in fact. He doesn’t make a big deal about it, and he helps you when necessary. But dear _god_ , if you ever look at him and watch that cloying, sticky, heavy pity in his eyes –

You don’t want it.

So you stick to texting him, for the next two months. You maneuver away from any mentions of your eye or your past and keep the subject matter light. Jean is good about it; he takes the hint and stops asking. You discuss TV shows instead; Sirens is a personal favorite, but Jean prefers Bob’s Burgers, which came as a shock. Pastel man worth billions loves low-budget cartoon show – why?

And then you marathoned the whole thing in a week, and understood.

Not that you’d ever admit that. _That_ referring to both marathoning the thing and understanding why he liked it.

You watch September 4th come ever closer, crossing off each box on the calendar with increasing nervousness. You meet with your clients more and more often. You’re beginning to notice what Jean had talked about: your clients really don’t know much about you, and they really do probe you for information. You deflect their questions with an ease that surprises you – you never noticed you were doing it. Even as a child, though, your mother always said you were closed off.

That certainly doesn’t make you eager to see Jean again.

You’ve spent your whole life turning away from everyone you met, and – your right side notwithstanding – it’s probably saved your life more than once. It’s a good habit to have. You’re not going to throw that all away for one man with an unholy love of Easter colors.

And then it’s September 4th and Sasha’s sitting in your kitchen, cleaning out her favorite gun all over your counter.

“He makes a single move that you don’t like, you shoot him, all right?” She commands you for the umpteenth time.

“I know, I know.”

“Are you sure, though? Can you do it?”

You smile at her. It comes out as more of a grimace, but that’s probably what she was expecting anyway. “If it comes down to me or him, I’ll choose me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She pauses to take a huge bite out of her ham sandwich. “Mmph ut malng ure,” she informs you. You don’t ask her to repeat.

The doorbell rings.

You feel vaguely like a teen going on your first date when Sasha, currently playing the role of your overeager mother, zips over to the door before you even get out of your chair.

“Jean!” You hear her exclaim from the front hall. “So glad to see you got here on time. Have any trouble getting here? Traffic? deer?”

She’s wearing her Scary Smile when you get over there, standing with arms crossed over her chest and blocking the doorway with a stance that would make Wonder Woman proud.

Jean is more muted today. Apparently he cares what people on Broadway think of him. He’s wearing grey suit pants with a white dress shirt and a baby blue vest, bowtie, and shoes. All very color-coded, all very societally acceptable.

“No traffic or deer to be seen, fortunately.”

“Really? Ah, well, that might change on your way home. The deer tend to jump in front of cars at night, you know.”

“Thank you for reminding me. I wouldn’t want to forget myself and drive above 35.”

“Never.”

He winks at you.

You snort.

Sash smiles at you. “Ready to go?”

You nod as you pat you pockets, reassuring yourself that both tickets and gun are in place. “Ready.”

Jean holds out his arm to you. “Shall we?”

You step forward and take his arm. You feel a little like Scarlett O’Hara in a suit.

He opens the friggin car door for you and guides you in.

You catch a glimpse of a suppressed grin on Sasha’s face before she slides into the drivers seat, and make a mental note to just let Jean drive next time.

That actually stops your train of thought in its tracks – next time? Have you already decided that there’s gonna be a next time?

And then he’s sitting next to you, eyebrows raised, saying – “Would you like me to buckle your seatbelt for you?”

You roll your eye and twist until you can see the seatbelt. “I’ll be all right.”

He’s frowning when you look back at him. “Shit. You usually sit on this side, don’t you.”

You nod. “It’s easier to buckle up when I can see the belt.”

“You can tell me, y’know.”

“I’d rather be able to see you, actually.”

“Complement or paranoia?”

“Both.”

“Oh good, at least I’m hot.”

Sasha snorts.

Jean looks affronted. “Am I wrong?”

She shrugs and declines to answer.

“Are you calling my date ugly?” You ask.

“It’s a matter of opinion.”

Jean just grins at you. “So this _is_ a date.”

“Yeah. I – assumed so, anyway.”

Sasha laughs. “This is worse than the first time I asked Connie out. The two of you are a wreck.”

“Connie?” Jean asks.

Sasha waves her left hand above her head, showing off the gold band on her ring finger. “My husband.”

“Does he know what you do for a living?”

“Yes he does, and he thinks it’s awesome.”

“Does he know what Marco does for a living?”

“Yes, and he thinks it’s equally awesome, but in a different way.”

“Oh, good. What does he do for a living?”

“Cop.”

Jean snorts so hard you worry he ruptured something. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“How does he -?”

“He says he’s here for the Common Citizen, and so long as Marco keeps his shit contained to the rich asswads, Connie’s cool with it.”

“Incredible.”

Sasha grins. “He’s the love of my life for a reason.”

“Aw.”

He says it genuinely, and you can practically watch Sasha’s approval rating for him rise a good ten percent.

He turns back to you. “So. Bob’s Burgers.”

You sigh heavily. “What about it?”

He waggles his eyebrows at you. “How funny was it?”

“It really –”

“He watched the whole thing in a week,” Sasha says, cheerfully throwing you directly under the bus.

“Sasha, if looks could kill, Marco would’ve _slaughtered_ you,” Jean informs her delightedly.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

You give in. “It was funny.”

“It was _hysterical_.”

You grit your teeth. “Hilarious.”

Jean leans closer to you. “You really don’t like the fact that you enjoy a cartoon, do you.”

“It’s not exactly on the same level as Tom Stoppard.”

“Says who?” Jean cries. “It’s all objective. I don’t expect Tom Stoppard to make me laugh at a stupid pun, and I don’t expect Bob’s Burgers to do anything _but_ make me laugh at a stupid pun. They both do what they’re supposed to do, so they’re both good.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrug. “It just seems a little time consuming, is all.”

He huffs. “Well, I’ve gotta do _something_ on the way to meet clients. Or prospective clients.”

“What, you don’t review their offer? Your counteroffer? The results?”

“No. Do you?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Of course. It pays to be prepared. I find a review of their reported disposition to be helpful, as well.”

“A review of their – oh _man_ what’d you think of me before we met?” He grins at you, and there’s that predatory gleam in his eyes, the one that makes you feel just a tiny bit defensive.

“What do you mean?” You ask carefully.

He leans towards you. You’re not entirely sure whether or not it’s intentional. “I mean, what were you prepared for?”

“Nothing. Everything.”

“And that means?”

“It means you’re highly unpredictable, no one knows why you take the deals you do, no one knows your motivations, there’s no consistency to you, and the only definite thing I have in your file is that your style is a little bit odd.”

He blinks. You might have snapped at him.

Oops. Oh well.

He takes it in stride, though. “Well, at least I’m consistently inconsistent.”

You sigh. You’re still not entirely okay with your first meeting: you hadn’t heard any rumors of him doing this with anyone else, business partners or clients, but that’s no guarantee that he _hadn’t_. Who would say anything about it? Who would let themselves be drawn in by that? Weakened like that?

You would, apparently.

“I know that look,” Jean says. “It means you’re thinking. Stop that. That never leads to anything good.”

He mock-glares at you.

“Why don’t you ever change your hair color?”

He blinks at the sudden subject change and runs his hand through his hair. “I like these colors. They match everything.”

You gape at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What? It’s not _my_ fault you don’t know color theory. Or colors at all, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever once seen you in anything but black and white.”

“That’s because I have good taste.”

“You sure you’re not just colorblind?”

“There’s a lot of things wrong with my eyesight, but colorblindness isn’t one of them,” you respond drily.

He snorts. “I’ll take your word for it.”

There’s a sudden swooping feeling in your stomach, like you’ve just realized you’re standing at the edge of a precipice. “So how do you like Sirens?” You ask, turning the conversation away from dangerous topics with all the tact of a killer whale.

Jean acquiesces gracefully, and you spend the remainder of the ride discussing TV shows.

Sasha drops you in front of the theater. “I’ll be around,” she says, waving a hand.

“You didn’t get a ticket?” Jean asks.

“Told Connie I’d have several hours in New York, would he like to join me, and he said he’d meet me up here. I’m going on a date of my own.”

“Ah.”

She waits until you’re inside to drive away, probably pissing off everyone in a taxi trying and failing to find a space to stop.

The orderly bustle of well-dressed people finding their seats is comforting, and you begin to relax into your seat.

It’s also then that you begin to wonder about the etiquette of hand-holding.

As in: should you or should you not hold Jean’s hand? Do you _want_ to hold Jean’s hand? Does he want to hold yours?

You’re beginning to wish you’d gone on more dates as a teen. Maybe you’d have more experience. Then again, maybe you’d just have more awkward moments to look back on.

Jean solves your mini-crisis for you, reaching over and tapping the back of your hand, raising his eyebrows at you. You nod and flip your hand over and he takes it, grinning like a kid as he faces the stage again. It’s oddly reassuring.

The lights dim a few moments later, and the curtains open.

It appears to be set in the 1800s.

“What’s carnal embrace?” Asks a little girl.

Jean snorts.

The little girl’s name is Thomasina, and she’s thirteen years old. Her young tutor has the rather memorable name of _Septimus Hodge_ , and he’s had an affair with a writer’s wife. The dialogue is witty, the little girl is an incredible character, and the characters introduced within the first scene promise to be interesting enough.

The next scene opens in the same setting, but in the present day. Hannah and a couple other characters are studying the characters from the previous scene. With pleasure, you note the similarities between the present day characters and the 1800s characters.

As the play continues, you begin to understand the slightly backwards nature of the play: the present day characters state their theories or known facts regarding the past inhabitants of the house, and then the scene switches back to the past, and you get to see if they were right or not. It’s incredibly intriguing: there’s a duel, and the present day characters say one of the people died – you revert to the past, and discover that the duel never occurred, and the character presumed dead only left the country. The present day characters ask about a hermit, and you know there was no hermit, only to discover that Septimus may have become the hermit, although you don’t know why.

The final scene is an absolute work of art. Both sets of characters are on the stage at the same time; the present day characters are dressed in fancy outfits for a party, blurring the lines between the past and the present. Their conversations and actions mirror each other. You can’t help but smile at the perfection of it all.

And then Hannah and another character mention that Thomasina died in a fire the day before her seventeenth birthday.

Jean makes a muted noise of shock next to you, although you’re not sure if it’s because of the plot twist or because your hand just gripped his so tightly you’re surprised you didn’t break one of his fingers.

Thomasina asks Septimus to teach her to dance. She wants to learn for her upcoming birthday party.

Oh, no. Oh no. No no no.

Darkness falls on that section of the stage as Thomasina and Septimus take the first few halting steps of a waltz.

Oh god no.

Hannah concludes that Septimus became a hermit after Thomasina’s death.

Dear lord, no.

The play ends, and you stand. You’re on your way out before the actors even take their bows. You hear Jean tripping over himself to follow you out.

“Marco? Marco, are you all right?” He calls, earning a couple glares from the audience. You’re sure you earn some yourself. You don’t particularly care.

You’re already dialing Sasha. You’re too exposed out here. You contemplate leaving Jean behind – it’s not like he doesn’t have enough money to call a cab or take a damn train – but he already knows where you live, why would you tell him where you _live_? “Sasha? It’s time to go. Now.”

“Now? Don’t you wanna –”

“No.” You’re snapping at her. You don’t care.

“I – okay, gimme five.” She hangs up.

“Marco?” Jean brushes your elbow and you jump to the side.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I – okay, just – are you all right?”

He sounds genuinely concerned.

You need to get home.

But he knows where you live, you’re not even safe _there_ –

Calm down, you need to calm down, you absolutely cannot show weakness here, not in public.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re – not, you’re not, Marco, please, just –”

You ignore him. You don’t know what to say to him. You have nothing for him. You can’t believe you put yourself in this position.

Sasha can’t find a space, so she just stops in the middle of the road. You slide in without Jean’s help and wipe the New York City dirt off your gloves.

Sasha waits for Jean to get in before she pulls away. You almost wish she hadn’t.

“Marco?” She asks tentatively. “Are you -?”

“I’m fine,” you say, voice clipped.

It’s not their business. It’s none of their business.

It’s a long drive back home.

Thomasina sits in your head, and so does she – the woman who very nearly killed you. Not that it was her idea; she’d been hired, of course. The man who’d hired her was long dead on your orders. You’d let the woman live. She was no threat to you without the financial incentive to kill you. You hadn’t seen her since then, and hoped never to see her again.

The fact remains that the only thing that had saved you was sheer luck and your chauffer’s timely arrival.

 You calm down a little over the course of the ride. Jean isn’t Annie Leonhart, and you are no Thomasina. Your new house is only one story for a reason, and its unusual architecture – no interior rooms, a small garden where the interior room should be, wide windows lining the entire house – makes it easy to leave in case of a fire. Over the past few months, you’d begun to wonder if your paranoid behavior was unreasonable. You try to put yourself back into that mindset.

You confront your main question head-on. Can you trust Jean? First response: you have no idea. There’s nothing telling you that you can’t; there’s nothing telling you that you can. None of his behavior leans decisively towards one conclusion or the other.

You can feel his eyes on you. He’s not saying anything, just – waiting. For you. Not brushing it off.

You glance forward and meet Sasha’s eyes. She’s worried about you.

She should’ve had more time with Connie. You made her leave early.

You make a mental note to apologize to him.

“Sasha? I’m sorry for cutting your date short.”

She starts shaking her head before you even finish. “Don’t.”

You open your mouth to continue, but she shoots you a glare that would put a king in his place, let alone you.

 You don’t know what to say to Jean.

An apology would sound hollow; starting up a conversation would feel fake. You could simply tell him it didn’t work out and ask him not to contact you again, but – you – don’t want to do that. You don’t want to do that.

Therefore, what you owe him is an explanation.

That’s not something you can give him here, with Sasha watching. She knows the whole story, but somehow, it doesn’t feel right to recount it here.

So you wait.

And when Sasha parks in your driveway, you put your hand on Jean’s shoulder. “Will you stay a little longer? You deserve an explanation.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. He nods immediately.

Sasha gets out, too, putting her hands on your shoulders like she’s about to give you a pep talk. “Marco, do you want me to stay?”

You shake your head. “Thank you, but no.”

A muscle in her jaw twitches.

You can see the distrust in her eyes.

“Sash – one of the characters in _Arcadia_ , she died in a fire. It –”

She waves a hand. “Say no more. I understand.” She nods at Jean, claps you on the shoulder, pats the pocket with her cell phone in it, and leaves.

You lead Jean inside.

“Do you want anything to drink?” You offer.

“Water would be nice,” he says cautiously.

Two glasses of water it is.

You sit down in the living room. He sits in the chair to your left.

You smile a little. Still so considerate.

“Five years ago, I made the acquaintance of a woman. She and I – became friends, I suppose. I thought of her as more, and thought she felt the same way about me.” You close your eye and remember time spent with Annie – how you learned to make her laugh, how invested she became in your interests, how absolutely certain you were that you’d made your own tiny pocket of happiness in this world. How surprised you were to find out that you _could_ have happiness when your job entails tearing people down, starting from the roots.

You open your eye again and train it on Jean. He stares at you, frowning, eyebrows pulled together in concern.

So much like her.

You’ll pay a steep price if he’s any more like her than he already is.

“We went back to my house one night. She’d insisted on buying roses, so many roses – several bouquets of them. She told me to wait downstairs. Twenty minutes later, when she called me up, my bedroom was covered in them. Covered. I could smell it from down the hall. It was overpowering. And, of course, she was there, in lingerie.”

Jean’s nose flares.

You drink your water.

“We kept brandy up there. It was Annie’s favorite. She liked it particularly strong – had an incredible tolerance for it. You know the way the smell of nicotine hangs around smokers? Annie nearly always smelled a little like brandy. I didn’t notice the smell anymore, and the roses hid it incredibly well. And it wasn’t out of the ordinary for her to be drinking it. It _was_ a little out of the ordinary for her to pour it on me – she didn’t like to waste it. But I didn’t think anything of it until she pulled out a lighter.”

You decide to skip the next part – your own failure to understand, the shock when you finally did. The double doors that led to your bedroom, and the doorknobs she had tied together.

“I went for the windows when I realized I couldn’t get out the door. They were too small and high up, and I was on fire, which didn’t exactly help me think straight.” You snort. Jean doesn’t find it funny. “The floor collapsed under me, and I was able to get out the kitchen windows.” You finish your water. “Whole house was destroyed. Sasha’d forgotten her bracelet at my house – turned back around to get it, drove up to find me lying on the ground and the house burning behind me. They couldn’t do much for me at the hospital. Had to take my eye, obviously, but I opted out of most skin grafts. I’m lucky. As long as I take a painkiller every morning the pain is entirely manageable.”

Jean puts his glass on the coffee table.

You wait for a moment.

He slides off the chair, coming to his knees in front of you. “Thank you for telling me,” he says softly.

 You try to smile. It doesn’t come across particularly well. “No problem.”

He holds out a hand. “Do you mind if I see?”

You stare down your right glove, like it's going to jump off for you. It doesn’t. You pull it off yourself.

Your skin is thick, mottled, red. You don’t particularly enjoy looking at it yourself.

Jean kisses it, gently.

You snort. It’s stupid.

He slides your sleeve up a little and kisses the skin there, too, the skin that still looks freshly burned.

And then he’s tugging at your coat and your shirt and you’re laughing a little, crying a little, pulling it off, and he’s kissing your arm and your torso until he’s bent too awkwardly to continue and pulls you up so he can stand in front of you and remove your eye patch, keeping eye contact with you and moving slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. And then he’s kissing the corner of your eye socket. His hands are soft against your face, even as he tilts you down a little so he can reach your eye.

He kisses your lips. It’s nothing like the sexual, sensual kisses you’d exchanged before. It’s got none of the challenge, none of the goodbye. It’s just a kiss.

He pulls away and looks you directly in the eye.

“Never again,” he whispers fiercely, and you understand how this confusing, inconsistent, messy, pastel man somehow managed to become one of those few who are not to be crossed. Looking into his eyes – you understand that, now.

“Never again.”

And you believe him.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for making Annie the bad guy, but I saw some post a while ago theorizing that Marco had found out about Annie/Bertl/Reiner being titans, and Annie having to take him out. Kinda just took that and ran with it. Sorry Annie, ilu.


End file.
